


water

by mickleborger



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickleborger/pseuds/mickleborger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ori in Moria.  Ori after they have taken the bridge.  Ori regretting his life choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	water

Balin's death came quickly, from behind a stone.  Balin, who had been a wise lord, though not for long.  Balin, who had been on most sacred ground, gazing into the Kheled-zâram as countless lords had before him.  He almost heard the Rukhs in time, _almost_ turned in time - but, alas: the arrow had been swift as all arrows, and the last thing in his mind as he fell was the shimmering of the stars in the pool.  He was buried hastily, but well, and the stone of his coffin is cool between my shoulders.

Óin's death I cannot imagine.  As we tried to place a barricade between us and the Rakhās - an endless horde; vicious, rising - we sent out five to the West-gate, and they found the water restless.  The four that yet live say that Óin, rushing forward, was suddenly pulled by a thing from the dark - towards the water, and then into the air, and then into the water.  They say he went without a sound, save perhaps a muffled grunt of surprise.  They say the Watcher has given him an entirely different kind of burial, and that there is no way out through the western doors, lest we wish to suffer the same.  I feel ill.

Skirfir is of the four, and only by the skin of his teeth, if Virfir does not lie.  He does not speak.  He only shuffles his armor to hide the welts, as if they are a hideous secret - as if, somehow, hiding them will change what has come to pass, or what undoubtedly will.  He shuffles at his armor and he looks to the door.  He flinches with every thud we hear, but only a little.  My hand shakes as I write, but my mind is cloudy and the words do not come as easily as they should.  Sviur, who is young, looks at me from time to time with his big eyes the color of the Kibil-nâla, blood marring the side of his face.  His beard is yellow under that blood.  I search in vain for a smile under the beard, but it seems that at this point even Sviur's normally high spirits are spent.

The doors creak.  The drums beat.  There are cries on the other side of the door and they are in an ugly tongue, and though we do not know the words we understand them.  I am having trouble breathing, now: the air in my lungs is thick as coal-dust and my vision spots and I wish I had but a bit of water - but suddenly I remember Óin at the West-gate, and I am grateful to have none.

I grit my teeth and my hand scrawls the last words it is to ever write anywhere into the Book of Mazarbul and the script is horrendous.  The pen falls from my fingers and I bring the book to my chest, against my aching ribs.  Sviur looks like he would say something to me, but he cannot bring himself to it.  He only glances at the ceiling helplessly before returning his attention to the door.  I can no longer lift my eyes to anything.

The barricade breaks.  Sviur smiles his last mad smile and for a moment looks like another young Khazad I once knew, or perhaps a pair of them, until he rushes forward and a pitiless mace descends upon him and he smiles no more.  I see the others fall one by one but I am beyond knowing them.  I feel a scream rising from my throat but I fight it down, though I doubt there is a point to it, now.  Nori would fight it.  Dori would fight it.  I will fight it.  The others have fallen and still I fight it.

And a Rukhs comes to me, and finally I focus my gaze on something.  Not stars for me, nor a gaping maw; an arrow.  For me, an arrow.

It takes its time drawing the bow.  It smiles at me, I think.  My eyes prickle.

May the arrow be swift.  I cannot fight for ever.

**Author's Note:**

> I have this pretty horrible headcanon that Balin took Ori under his wing at some point, possibly even before the quest for Erebor, and that this is why Ori ends up with him in Moria. I mean, it's partly fascination for this huge piece of Dwarven history (and Ori so familiar with the ruins of Nogrod and Belegost), but it's also because his mentor's going and they're pretty close. It may not have been, in retrospect, the healthiest of decisions he could have made.


End file.
